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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29318511">The Lovespoon</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/welshalbino/pseuds/welshalbino'>welshalbino</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:42:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,890</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29318511</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/welshalbino/pseuds/welshalbino</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Morgan has been working on a personal project... Second person, Gender Neutral, it was intended as a Charles/Arthur one shot so can easily be read from Charles' POV, or not if that's not your thing. Just some Welsh cultural appreciation</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Lovespoon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“What are you doing?”</p><p>Arthur all but jumps out of his skin, colour rising in his cheeks. “Nothing,” he says a little too quickly.</p><p>You dismiss the secrecy. It doesn’t worry you, merely piques your interest a little. Usually it’s his journal he’s so protective over, but the knife in his hand and the shavings of bark in the grass suggest he has found a new creative outlet.</p><p>“Mind if I sit here?”</p><p>He looks at the space beside him on the salt bleached log and shakes his head, hiding his eyes beneath the rim of the worn gambler’s hat he favours. “‘Course not. Free country.”</p><p>“Not for fellas with bounties,” you tease, and he chuckles, returning to his work.</p><p>You let the silence stretch, breathing in the cool breeze sweeping in over Flat Iron Lake and listening to the bird song. The coffee in your hand is too bitter and thin for your taste, but you continue to sip it stoically, knowing you’ll suffer later if you don’t.</p><p>“Much planned today?”</p><p>You sigh and struggle to smother the smirk tugging its way to the surface. “Fixin’ that wagon you and Mrs Adler took to town.”</p><p>He tuts. “They don’t build ‘em like they used to, a’right?”</p><p>You hum into your tin cup, wincing at the flavour. “Don’t know what magical wagon you used to drive. S’far as I can tell, they’re making them same as ever.”</p><p>Laughing, you let him land a gentle punch to your upper arm before taking the opportunity to stretch with a long groan. “Guess I’ll catch you later, Arthur.”</p><p>He tips his hat at you with a small smile as you turn back into camp to begin chores.</p><p>***</p><p>“What the hell is it, Morgan?”</p><p>You shake your head, draining the last of the stew from the bowl. Sometimes it was a wonder the Pinkerton’s weren’t just listening out for Bill’s bawdy boasting or Dutch’s eloquent enunciations of faith to track them down. You toss your dish and spoon into the tub and look back out across to the sunset. A lone canoe drifts over the still surface, leaving a V of ripples in its wake. Whilst you appreciated the peace and quiet of this somewhat more remote camp, you worried for potential enemies eavesdropping from all manner of directions, especially as some members of camp had more than made themselves at home.</p><p>“It don’t matter what it is, I already told yer, it’s not for you!”</p><p>“Then why the hell you bring it over here? And what the hell’s it for?”</p><p>“Mind your damn business!”</p><p>“Gentlemen! What seems to be the problem?” Hosea’s tranquillity smoothes over the tension.</p><p>You’re torn between conceding to your curiosity and keeping your distance from the drama until it’s cooled off. You glance over to your tent and inadvertently catch Arthur’s eye. You look away quickly, taking a deep breath as your cheeks fill with colour. It’s not what you think it means, you tell yourself, repeating your internal mantra. It’s a coincidence. Let your head guide your heart. Don’t chase daydreams. It’s not what you think it means.</p><p>You watch the canoe disappear behind the trees. No man ever got out of the woods on his heart alone. You need to listen to logic.</p><p>You look back, but Arthur’s back is to you. As it should be, you reason as you walk over to the campfire, denying any intent to eavesdrop to yourself.</p><p>“Is this what I think it is?” asks Hosea softly.</p><p>“Wh-What do you think it is?”</p><p>“A spoon carved from basswood!” Hosea laughed. “Didn’t you used to have one like this? Your mother’s, if I’m not mistaken?”</p><p>He grunts as Bill splutters. “Ain’t gonna do much eatin’ with that, Morgan! It’s almost flat! You’d be better off eatin’ off a butter knife!”</p><p>“It ain’t for eatin’ with!” he snaps, snatching it out of Hosea’s hands and turning on his heel. “It’s stupid. Forget it.”</p><p>Bill cries out as Hosea’s hand makes contact with the back of his head. “You drunken oaf. Read a room why don’t you!”</p><p>“Read a room?” Bill blusters. “I ain’t seen four walls since that bank job-”</p><p>You push yourself to your feet and track him down with ease. He has stormed off towards the treeline and stopped by his horse, leaning his elbows on the saddle patting the mare’s neck distractedly. He throws the item towards the shore in a fit of frustration and pulls himself up onto his mare with a huff. You’re too close in the clearing to be able to hide when he looks straight at you, but despite stiffening in surprise, he yanks the reins to lead his horse out of camp without looking back.</p><p>You wait until you’re sure you’re alone before stalking out to the grass, looking for whatever it is that Arthur threw. It takes a while, but eventually you find it.</p><p>It’s a rough whittled spoon. On closer inspection, you can see the detail scratched into it and where he’s tried to sand the edges to smooth them. The lip of the spoon is, as Bill stated, too shallow for much use, but the handle is intricate and suggests it’s purely a decorative piece. The wood winds into itself, plaiting itself awkwardly up to the head of a stag. You walk it back to camp carefully, keeping it out of sight in the fold of your shirt. Finding a quiet space near the first aid cart, you study it closer. The handle is not carved with plaits as first surmised, but a feather. The detail is exquisite. It fans out near the top, like that of a peacock, but instead of the target or eye, it blossoms with the angular snout of a stag, it’s antlers stretching up above.</p><p>Arthur couldn’t have finished this today. You think back and realise you have seen him asking Sean to teach him to whittle, asking Hosea how best to carve details. No wonder he snapped at Bill - the time he must have spent on this… and for it to be made from a singular piece of wood with no mistakes…</p><p>In your lapse of attention, Hosea has crept up on you.</p><p>“You found it then?”</p><p>“I suppose so.” You straighten up and hold it out for him to examine in the light. “It’s incredible, isn’t it?”</p><p>“Arthur has never done anything by halves.” He chuckles and presses it back into his hands. “D’you know, when we first met him, he had something like this in his pocket. Said his grandmother had given it to his mother as a gift on her engagement. Something like a love spoon? It’s some sort of British tradition, I think. His was lost after the stables we were sleeping in caught fire. Lost a few possessions to that fire, sleeping bags included, but that was one of the few things that couldn’t be replaced.”</p><p>You murmur a few words of wonder and Hosea shrugs. “I’ve never found much on it in the way of literature about them. I’ve tried asking John, Sean, Molly, Mac, Davey… and many other Brits we’ve picked up along the way, but no one seems familiar with it. It’s like it lived and died with his family.”</p><p>You leave him to his musings and carefully carry the spoon back to your tent. Taking some cotton from a torn shirt (damn Night folk and their knives) you wrap it gently and leave it on the cabinet at his bedside to find later.</p><p>You don’t hear him return that night. You wake from a dreamless sleep, thinking of the day ahead as you pour yourself some coffee and look out across the horizon. With a twist of your heart, you recognise the silhouette on the same log as yesterday, and hesitantly make your way over.</p><p>“Morning.”</p><p>Arthur looks up at you and gives you a small smile. “Morning.”</p><p>You sit down besides him and together you rest in comfortable silence. Eventually Arthur holds out the remains of your shirt and you accept it with a small nod of acknowledgment.</p><p>“Thanks for… for finding it for me.” He moves the spoon between his hands, turning it over, embarrassed. “It’s stupid, I know.”</p><p>“I don’t think it’s stupid.” The morning light has made his pupils retract enough for you to see the essence of green in his irises. “It’s a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. I’ve never seen anything like it.”</p><p>“Nah, the one my mother had was better.”</p><p>“Hosea told me about that.” You slide your hand out to close the gap between you. “Said you lost it in a fire?”</p><p>He sighs heavily. “Yeah.” His lips thin as he thinks hard. You give him the space, finishing the last of your coffee which is a little better than yesterday’s. Eventually he takes a deep breath and turns to you, his eyes scouring your face for any signs of repulsion or amusement at his expense. You mirror him, keeping your face as neutral as you can.</p><p>“My… my taid - or my grandfather - gave one of these to my nain. It’s… it’s a traditional gift we used to give to each other as a token of appreciation. My grandfather gave it to my grandmother when they got engaged, and she gave it to my mother before they came to America.”</p><p>You nod slowly. “Was it a cultural thing?”</p><p>“Yeah. We didn’t have a lot of money, so this was something you could make to show… well show how much you cared, I guess.”</p><p>He holds the elegant utensil out to you, a blush creeping over his cheeks.</p><p>“I had a look at it last night. It’s beautiful, Arthur. The detail… it must have taken you weeks to carve.”</p><p>“About two months in total.” He rubs the back of his neck with a grimace. “It took me a few tries to get it right.”</p><p>“The care you’ve put into it… It’s really something.”</p><p>“I, err, made it for you.”</p><p>You manage to catch your jaw before it hits your lap, but the colour is already flooding your face without abandon. “Are you sure?”</p><p>“‘Course I’m sure. Unless you don’t want it? It’s stupid, I know-”</p><p>“But- why? Why me?” You let your fingertips trace the grooves of the feather and slide over the smooth antlers. “Don’t you want to keep it?”</p><p>“I made it for you,” he repeats, his bottom lip disappearing as he chews it. “It won’t be any good for eatin’ with, but-”</p><p>“Neither are your sketches, but that doesn’t mean they lack value.” A laugh escapes you as you reach out and squeeze his hand. You’re leaning forward unconsciously, like he is the centre of gravity. Your heart thuds as you realise he’s also teetering towards you. “Thank you, Arthur. This is… wow!”</p><p>He peaks out from under his hat, a smile pulling at his lips at your reaction. “You mean a lot to me. It’s the least I could do.”</p><p>“A thank you would have sufficed!”</p><p>He scoffs, his gaze softening. “You know what I mean.”</p><p>It’s not what you think it means.</p><p>His breathing is unsteady as it brushes your face. You can feel the warmth of his hand gliding up your back as he closes the gap and gently presses a chaste kiss against your lips.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please feel free to leave comments or submit requests. A lovespoon is a welsh tradition that still exists today and I couldn't NOT have Arthur get vulnerable like this.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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